


Crime Scene

by deklava



Series: The Man Who Beat Sherlock [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bondage, Bondage and Discipline, Dom/sub, Fingerfucking, Genderswap, M/M, Milking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 12:40:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/687060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deklava/pseuds/deklava
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sherlock is lying naked on the hotel room bed, ignoring the bloodstains on the rug and the crime scene tape draped everywhere. He won’t say why this particular murder unsettled him so much, but since a Colombian drug lord was decapitated with machine gun fire in this very room and cocaine is smeared across the desktop like spilled flour, Ian can guess.</i>
</p>
<p> <i>Defying temptation can be even sweeter than giving in to it.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Crime Scene

**Author's Note:**

> **Beta:** chasingriver

Ian approaches this encounter like all of the others he’s had with Sherlock. He doesn’t wonder why it’s happening or ask what the man shivering beneath him wants. He doesn’t reveal how he reacted when he got the pleading text that summoned him here. Sherlock doesn’t need to know about the elevated heartbeat and aching crotch that these messages bring.

 But since he’s Sherlock Holmes, he probably does know.

 Sherlock is lying naked on the hotel room bed, ignoring the bloodstains on the rug and the crime scene tape draped everywhere. He won’t say why this particular murder unsettled him so much, but since a Colombian drug lord was decapitated with machine gun fire in this very room and cocaine is smeared across the desktop like spilled flour, Ian can guess.

 Defying temptation can be even sweeter than giving in to it.

  _Don’t touch your cock before my arrival_ , the Man had ordered. But no such restriction was placed on anal stimulation, so when Ian arrived he found the detective face-down on the mattress, trousers and pants lowered far enough to give his long fingers access to his hole. Five minutes later, Sherlock was naked, hands cuffed behind his back and struggling to relax as Ian’s gloved, slicked digits began to finish what he started.

 Sherlock gasps and twists on the sweat-heavy bedclothes when the first finger slides into his body. It breaches him easily, thanks to his earlier fumbling and the generous application of lube. Ian explores the silky, hot inner walls for awhile, enjoying the way Sherlock pleads for more without actually _pleading_ : those long white thighs spread further, the pillow muffles eager moans, and he grinds his cock against the mattress. That last one earns him a soft rebuke and a hard slap on the arse.

 “All in good time, Sherlock. I decide what you get and when.”

 Ian withdraws, but Sherlock isn’t left empty for long. The moment he exhales, two digits penetrate him to the third knuckle, making his toes curl and his back arch like a dancer’s.

 Ian licks his lips as the band of muscle squeezes his fingers. He yearns to push further inside and start scissoring, to spread Sherlock open and undo him yet again. But the exposure to cocaine –his former reason for living- has left the detective wound up tighter than a violin string. Tension causes his muscles to stand out in sweat-glossed relief, and his breathing is harsh and ragged. He needs to relax, and the only way to accomplish that is to take control of the situation away from him. Robbed of choice, that overactive brain will go quiet and let his body submit.

 “Got yourself in quite the state, haven’t you?”

 “Yes, Sir.”

 “You did the right thing by calling me.” Ian lifts his gaze long enough to survey the bloodstains and cocaine drifts. “It’s a cruel world, isn’t it?”

 “Yes. But so are you, sometimes.”

 “Mmm, quite so. But cruel in a different sense.”

  _The sense that keeps you centred, Sherlock Holmes. Maybe it even keeps you alive._

Ian slides his fingers out, removes the glove, and retrieves the padded leather cuffs from his bag. He attaches them to Sherlock’s ankles, bends those long legs at the knee, and uses a double-ended clasp hook to connect the wrist and ankle restraints.  The hogtied position forces Sherlock’s knees apart, leaving his lube-coated hole at Ian’s mercy.

 This time two gloved fingers go in easily. Robbed of any ability to resist, Sherlock relaxes and presses his face deeper into the pillow. “Thank you, Sir,” he breathes as Ian draws out and pushes back in, building up a slow and tantalising rhythm.  When Ian presses a third finger in after adding more lube, Sherlock cries out and spreads his legs further, grinding his crotch into the mattress.

 “Oh _fuck_ , yes…”

 Ian grabs a fistful of those silky curls and jerks the detective’s face off the pillow. “If you come without permission,” he warns, “I will leave you tied up here when we’re done.” He won’t, of course, but just the thought of Lestrade and the Yarders- especially Donovan and Anderson- discovering him hogtied in a puddle of his own sperm makes Sherlock go still. “Do I make myself clear, pet?”

 The detective nods, although his pupils remain huge with excitement.

 “I’m glad that’s understood. But there’s the small matter of you failing to call me Sir just now. Do you suddenly fancy yourself to be my equal?”

 That’s another fiction that Sherlock needs to believe in order to make this all work. On a subliminal level the pale young man knows that his consent underscores their games, but he relies on Ian to make it seem otherwise. It’s the only way he can be sufficiently distracted to find peace.

 He shakes his head in response to the Man’s question. “No, Sir. I’m sorry, Sir.”

 Ian releases his hair, trying hard not to smile. “If you lived with me full-time,” he says as he twists his slick fingers, approaching the spot that always makes Sherlock a slave to his body and the Man who now controls it, “your place would be obvious. You would not be permitted to wear clothes except on the rare occasions that I let you out of the house. I believe I would keep your cock caged for the first week, and add an extra day of confinement for every time you fail to show me the proper respect.”

He finds Sherlock’s prostate and massages it slowly.

 “I’d milk you like this every day that your cock is imprisoned, to ensure that aching balls don’t distract you from your primary purpose: serving me.” He leans over Sherlock’s shuddering back to whisper directly into the young man’s ear. “Your demons – like the boredom- would never find you in my house.”

 “They never do, Sir,” Sherlock gasps as he pushes back against the Man’s hand. “Oh, please, Sir.”

 Ian knows that the scenario he has just described will never happen. Sherlock requires frequent taming, but he’s not meant to be domesticated. But the mere fantasy had them both excited; Ian uses his free hand to undo his leather trousers and take out his cock, which is stiff and wet with anticipation.

 Sherlock’s sphincter muscle has relaxed enough that Ian can gently separate his fingers, creating a pleasant stretch that makes the detective moan and slide his knees further apart.

 “More, Sir, please,” he begs.

 “You’ll need to be more specific,” Ian replies. He’s stroking himself, careful to let the pre-ejaculate drain onto the towel he’s laid out for that purpose. Another, thicker one lies beneath Sherlock. It wouldn’t do for either of them to leave extra DNA for a returning forensics team to discover. “More what? Another finger? My tongue?” He pauses. “My cock?”

 He tries not to sound too hopeful.

 Sherlock turns his head on the pillow, letting the Man see the fever now burning in his grey eyes. “Yes, your cock, please, Sir,” he rasps.

 Ian waits until Sherlock’s face is buried again. Then he grins widely, takes out his fingers, and tosses the glove into the plastic bag at his feet. “Very well,” he says as he releases the snap hook that keeps the other man hogtied. “Arse up then.”

 Sherlock struggles onto his knees while keeping his shoulders down. His tight buttocks glisten with an overspill of lube. When Ian rolls on a condom and runs a slick finger around the swollen rim of the hole gaping before him, Sherlock makes an obscene noise that goes straight to the Man’s cock. That comparatively light touch seems to have caused every erogenous nerve in the detective’s body to start firing.

 “Keep making those delectable sounds, pet,” Ian murmurs, “and I shall come before you can get what you want. We can’t have that, can we?”

 Sherlock promptly bites the pillow. He lets his raised arse and quivering thighs broadcast his desperation until Ian’s cock slides into him in one slick, brutal, and _perfect_ push. Then he arches his back to turn the angle from delicious to divine and gasps brokenly, “Please, please… Sir, fuck me!”

 Ian draws back until only the latex-covered tip brushes teasingly around the twitching, wet muscle. “How can I refuse such a lovely plea?” he asks rhetorically before shoving back in with such aggression that Sherlock is ploughed across the mattress and nearly hits the headboard. While the detective grunts and struggles to re-orient himself, the Man grabs his hips to hold him in place and fucks him so brutally that the mattress springs squeal in protest.

 Ian has never had sex at a murder site before, and the smell of drying blood -which represents a life violently lost- actually makes him feel more alive. He’s overwhelmed with gratitude that he still draws breath and can see and touch and feel things, namely the body of the beautiful man moaning and clenching around his cock. It all triggers an explosive orgasm that leaves him jerking and hissing and squeezing Sherlock’s hips so tightly that his fingers leave long-term bruises.

 Beneath him, Sherlock twists and makes pleading, guttural noises. Finally he manages to form words. “Please, Sir, need to come…. Please!”

 Ian extricates himself slowly, bins the sperm-heavy condom, and reaches between Sherlock’s legs. The young man’s cock pulses and skips in his grasp, warning that orgasm is en route. As he releases it gently, he experiences a sudden and irresistible urge to do something to Sherlock that he’s rarely done with other men.

 Before Sherlock can plead again, Ian flips him onto his back and leans over. “You may come now,” he says just before his lips close around that twitching cock and draw its entire length down his throat.

 He’s only done this with actual lovers in the past. Never with anyone whom he only sees when their typical restraint is surpassed by their need for his services.  He has no qualms about using his fingers and cock on clients, and if the person is a special pet, like Sherlock, he’ll occasionally use his tongue to prepare an arse or pussy for a good pounding. This -sucking cock during an assignation- is unprecedented. He wonders briefly if he should be worried, but when Sherlock cries out and starts to come, Ian decides he’ll deal with it later.

 The volume and intensity of Sherlock’s orgasm forces him to swallow more than once. He closes his eyes and relishes the feeling of power as his throat takes all the other man has to give without a single drop going astray. When Sherlock finally collapses against the sheets, Ian slips a finger into his still-slick hole and milks out any remnants. He only desists when Sherlock is so sensitive inside and out that the feather-light pressure from Ian’s fingertip and tongue makes him shiver in agony instead of ecstasy.

 “Well,” the Man says after pulling his mouth and finger away and giving that now-flaccid cock a final affectionate squeeze, “you are quite the challenge to my professional impartiality.”

 Sherlock doesn’t respond immediately. His lids are heavy and the massive hormone release has left him too languid to form words. Finally he asks, “How do you do it?”

 “I do a lot of things to you,” Ian smiles as he rolls Sherlock onto his side and removes the handcuffs. The ankle restraints follow. “Be specific.”

 “Make the world go away.”

 After zipping up his trousers, Ian stretches out beside the other man. “I don’t. I just make it a better place for awhile.”

 “Mm.”  Sherlock rolls onto his back and closes his eyes. Suddenly his lips twitch and a low chuckle rumbles in his chest. “John once told me not to giggle at a crime scene. But I did more than that tonight.” He cracks one eye open and gazes at Ian. “What does that make me, I wonder?”

 The Man presses his fingers gently against that long white throat. “It makes you mine.”

 Sherlock relaxes into the grip and smiles wearily. Then his eyes close and, for the first time in days, he is able to sleep.

 

 


End file.
